John's Blog
by DeathlyCarrots
Summary: After Sherlock's death, John went back to see his shrink, who suggested that he start up his blog again. These chapters are Dr John Watson's blog posts from The Reichenbach Fall onwards. Possible Johnlock. -Minor Swearing-
1. Chapter 1: In The Beginning

John's Blog

Chapter 1: In The Beginning

I can't really feel much, anymore, to be honest. I mean, I most definitely feel pain, but I feel sort of...empty. Although, I'm not quite sure 'empty' covers it. I feel as though someone has ripped my soul from my body, leaving me an empty, strange, depressed shell of a once respected man. I can't exactly remember much from before I met _him_. I remember I was in Afghanistan. I remember I trained at Barts. I remember I'm a doctor (although I'm not really sure how to be one anymore). But up until the day we met, everything sort of seems a dreary, repetitive blur. With him, it was exciting, new, interesting (even if he was a massive dick). And honestly, I'm scared. I'm petrified. I don't want to go back to that boring man I was before. I don't want anything. Well, that's a lie. There is one thing I do want, but unfortunately, he lies 6 feet under.

It took me a few weeks to finally be able to go back to the flat. In that time, I'd been staying at Molly's. Not in any way other than purely platonic. She helped me survive the first few weeks, I kept her up at night with my screams. So I guess you could say that I owe her. Eventually, Molly was able to guilt trip me into moving back into the flat, saying that Mrs Hudson needs me and she's all alone. However, seeing as I'm no help to poor Mrs Hudson, I figure that Molly simply wanted to have a peaceful nights' sleep.

I don't do much during my days. I usually just sit in my old armchair, staring emptily at the space he would sit. Occasionally, if I focused hard enough, I could imagine him there. Legs crossed, a look of utter determination on his face as he prattles on about this and that. I only ever did that if Mrs Hudson weren't there, though. Because afterwards, I'm always left grovelling on the floor, begging pathetically for the semi-transparent Sherlock to become solid and alive. Oh, there it is. I said his name. I hate doing that. It's as though the name burns on my tongue, searing my throat and sending a fiery pain down to my heart. Not unlike another name. I refuse to say that foul word, but see if you can't deduce who it is. I'll give you some clues;

•He was close to Sherlock

•I hate him

•He IS the British government

•I hate him

•His name starts with M.

Now, it's obviously not Moriarty, so if you can't figure out who the man is, you're probably wasting your time reading this stupid blog. Sherlock's name sends a burning fire into my heart, whereas THIS name sends a white-hot rage surging through my entire being. Honestly, I don't know how I ever put up with him. He's a swine. A bastard. Unworthy of the name 'Holmes'. A traitor. A coward. I would NEVER sell out my family! (Calm down, John). Just to show how much I hate him, I will give you all a recap of the last time I saw him.

(3 days after Sherlock's...fall.)

I was sitting quietly on the park bench in the rain, staring emptily at nothing and wishing it all away, when I heard footsteps crunching along the grass. I didn't look up; I didn't want to socialise.

"Hello, John."

That voice. That god damned voice that haunts my dreams. My head snapped up at him, and I glared daggers into his dull blue eyes, imagining what would happen if I knocked them out of his head.

"Listen, I understand that you may be a bit angry-"

"Save it."

"I'm sorry?"

"Save it, _Mycroft_." I remember spitting the name out as though it were venom, "you do not have the right to speak to me. Come near me again, and I _will _kill you."

"John, please! You must understand!"

I was on my feet so fast he didn't have time to blink before he was on the ground, clutching his bleeding nose and broken umbrella with me crouching above him, my gun pressed to his temple.

"You. Are. Not. Worthy. You DARE speak to me? You are a traitor! A coward! I hate you! I would give anything to pull this trigger right now, but Sherlock would not wish me to get sent to jail over the likes of _you_."

"John, I-"

I pressed the barrel harder into his head, effectively replacing his muffled voice with a wince of pain and terror.

"I hate you, Mycroft Holmes. You are the most despicable, disgusting person I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. You are the reason your brother is dead. You are the reason my..." My voice had started to crack, "...best friend is dead. And I can never forgive you for that. Now sod off, before I change my mind and sink my lovely bullet into that selfish brain of yours."

Mycroft gave me one more searching look before he scrambled to his feet and stormed off, wiping the blood from his nose. I sank further to the ground, tears already forming in my eyes. _I will not cry. I will not cry._

I cried.


	2. Chapter 2: The Session

John's Blog

Chapter 2: The Session

I probably should've explained in the previous blog post why on Earth I'm doing this. Well, it's been a year since the incident, and I'm no better off than I was at the start. I still have nightmares, I scream and cry in my sleep, I don't acknowledge anyone's presence. So, I decided to see my shrink again. Fat load of good that'll do. She told me I should start up my blog again. Can you believe that? My best friend just _died_, and she wants me to write about my day? Oh, well. I'll humour her. There was this one other thing she wanted me to do, but I'm scared. I can't. It could make me better; give me closure, or it could break me. She wants me to say the things I never got to say to him. But I'm just not there yet, so you'll all have to be patient.

Now, I've no idea who's reading these. Could be just fans. But then again, Lestrade used to read these. If you are reading this, Greg, just know that I don't blame you. You were loyal, you were kind. You were forced to do your job. I do not blame you, so stop hiding from me. I'm sure that if you came around, I'd be happy to make you a cup of tea. Mrs Hudson might be glad of company that isn't half-dead inside.

It's now nightfall, as I'm typing this, and not much really happened today. I was able to help Mrs Hudson carry in the shopping, which she was so grateful for, she cried. Probably because I'd shown some signs of emotion. Maybe I haven't been simply empty...maybe I don't look dead inside, I look tortured. I am not a religious man, but I feel as though I'm down in hell, and there is nothing else around me but fiery depths and Lucifer's cold, black eyes as he uses thousands of different torture methods on me, and me alone. Descriptive, yes, I know, but my psychiatrist said that I can put as much detail in it as I like, so there you have it.

My tremor's back. The one in my left hand? Yeah, it's back. That, and my limp. The battle ground does that to you. And I'm not talking about Afghanistan

Whenever I'm bored, I try out my detective skills. Sometimes I'll look out the window and analyse people, sometimes I'll look at 221B with a new eye and pull together evidence to see what type of person lives there. My results are always the same. Right-handed man (the tables and knives and pens) with a limp (the different density of the footsteps), takes his tea sugarless (sugar bowl is in the cupboard behind several other items), is grieving over something (tear stains on pillow), most probably a deceased flatmate (majority of items in the flat that clearly don't belong to him are untouched and covered in a layer of dust; sentiment). So, as you can see, my days aren't filled with much. I guess I prefer it that way. Being a huddled mess wrapped in blankets is bad enough without people around to witness it. My hair is unruly, I have stubble upon my cheek, and my eyes are droopy and blood-shot.

Sometimes I wonder what it's like for normal people with their normal lives. Comfortable job, steady pay, loving family...it must be nice not to feel as though every day, your heart shatters into millions of tiny pieces.

I went to my shrink again yesterday. I feel bad...I yelled at her. She seemed somewhat scared. I suppose, with my red eyes and disheveled appearance, I must look off-putting anyway, even without the added aggression. Back to yesterday;

"John?" She'd asked me gently, her voice is always so gentle. It makes me feel fragile.

"Mm?" I'd looked away from the window and down at my hands, which were bunched up into fists.

"You know what you have to do, don't you, John?"

"No, sorry?"

"It's been nearly 2 years, John. You need to clear out his things."

I'd nearly choked in surprise.

"Why?!" I'd asked, incredulous.

"It's unhealthy."

"No, you've no idea what-you don't-how could you even /suggest/...no."

"John, it'll give you closure."

"The last time I tried to get _closure _from your instructions, I ended up breaking! So don't you dare! You have no right! They're his items! He can deal with them! Not me!"

"John, Sherlock's not alive."

"DOES IT LOOK LIKE I CARE?" I'd roared, standing to my feet, "I WILL _NOT_ MOVE _ANY _OF HIS THINGS! DON'T BOTHER CONVINCING ME WITH YOUR TALK OF CLOSURE, BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE ON ABOUT. So just do us all a favour, _Ella_, and go screw yourself." I think I'd grabbed my jacket and stormed out at that point, leaving the poor woman thoroughly shocked and insulted. I didn't care. Why should I? What had she ever done for me? Tell me I'm mental? Tell me things aren't real? I don't need anyone telling me what I already know.


	3. Chapter 3: My Attempts

John's Blog

Chapter 3: My Attempts

Lestrade came over today. I tried to make an effort, I really did, but I'm afraid that my smiles turned out as grimaces and my eyes unfocused too often to be considered reasonable. He was understanding, though. He made sure not to sit in Sherlock's chair. That was kind of him. A small part of my brain wonders if it is unhealthy to be like this a year after your supposed 'friend' dies. Maybe people talk behind my back, wondering if it was just platonic. Well, honestly? I don't care. I'll let people make their own deductions.

I sort of regret the fact that the most interesting thing that happens to me most days is I get a phone call from a blocked number nearly every day. I always go to answer it, but it always stops ringing before I can reach it.

I've had some people approach me about Sherlock's will, but he never made one. He never drew up a will, just left me a little note on the kitchen counter that says;

_'Don't throw my things away._

_-SH' _which kind of confuses me. I understand that he wouldn't want his precious items tarnished, but he's dead. It shouldn't matter. Still, whenever I go to touch the skull or dust his desk, I get a pang of guilt in my chest and I just end up walking away.

Mrs Hudson appears to have given up on me. At first, she was always there for me, insisting upon making tea for me while I rest my leg, all the while telling me she's not my housekeeper. But now she just seems to float around. If she sees me, she'll nod, but she makes no effort anymore. I'm glad, I think. Her constant pestering and mothering got tiring. But at the same time, I just wish things could go back to normal. I wish more than anything that I could have my Sherlock back. Then maybe things could go back to how they were before. I could lose this aching pain in my leg that causes me to limp, my tremor could suddenly and suspiciously disappear, and I could tell Sherlock the things I never got the chance to. But alas, that will never happen.

I've come to terms with Sherlock being dead. I've accepted it, but I know I'll never move on. I've accepted that, too. I'll probably never be happy again, and really, what's the point of life without happiness? What's the point of life without Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective? Often, I've thought about joining him. I don't know if there is an afterlife, or if one simply ceases to exist, but I don't care. Anything would be better than this.

Do you mind if I tell you a secret? You mustn't tell anyone. I have actually attempted to join him, you know. I've tried it. The first time, I sat on my bed, opened my mouth wide, and placed the cold and comforting barrel of my gun in between my lips, my trigger finger shaking. I had put the slightest amount of pressure on the trigger, closed my eyes, and was just about to squeeze, when dear old Mrs Hudson walked in. This was back when she still seemed to care, and so she scolded me as though I were a child. She got tears in her eyes, confiscated my gun, and ran off to make a phone call. Since then, my attempts have been more discreet, but do you remember that blocked number that always rings me? With every attempt, just as I'm about to drag the blade across my skin or step off the chair and kick it away, I get that call, and curiosity gets the better of me. '_Just wait,' _I'll tell myself,_ 'just figure out who it is. One more day.'_

_'Stay alive one more day.'_

But one more day seems too much to bare, and I almost continue with my suicide, but then my voice turns into Sherlock's...

_'Please, John.'_

I put the blade down, slip the rope from my neck, put the pills back in the cupboard. I stay alive, but not for me, because I don't care about myself. But I stay alive for Sherlock. The only one that's ever really mattered.


	4. Chapter 4: My New Job

John's Blog

Chapter 4: My New Job

Considering I gave up on being a Doctor a year or two ago, I began running short on money. Unwilling to dig into Sherlock's cash, I started to worry about what I would do. I now had extra rent to pay, and the cost of living to uphold, all without a job. I had settled in for being doomed, when I heard familiar sirens wailing out on the street. I stood shakily and sauntered over to the window, staring out at the flashing lights below. Memories crashed through me, almost knocking me over. Sherlock stood at this exact window, staring out at these exact lights. My blood began to pound in my ears, repetitive and knocking. I almost swatted at my own head before I realised it wasn't my pulse, but an insistent knocking at the door.

"John."

"Greg, hi." I reached out to shake his hand, and he grasped it briefly, a stressed look crossing his face.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"We've got a case. None of our guys can solve it and you, being the one who worked closest with Sherlock, must've picked up some of his...skills."

"Ah. No."

"I can't believe I'm about to beg, but please, John. I'm really out of my depth here."

A small smirk crossed my face as I fondly remembered a conversation long, long ago.

"I'll have a look, but I'm warning you, I'm nowhere near as good as he was."

"Thank you. Thank you, John. Shall we?"

"Just let me get my jumper." I yanked my woollen jumper off the back of my chair and followed Lestrade out the door, grabbing my walking stick on the way out.

(***)

As it turns out, the case was fairly simplistic. I'll tell you all about it one day. It didn't really take long to figure it out, though. A day or two? But it brought to my attention that the police really are out of their depth, and they need someone to help them. I was going to offer my services, but as it turns out, I didn't need to.

"Brilliant, brilliant work back there, John." Lestrade congratulated me as I limped up to a cab after completing the case.

"Thank you, Greg."

"Listen, I was wondering if you'd like to, you know, work for us."

"Would I get a pay?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so."

"An office?"

"If you like."

"No. I don't want an office. I don't want a badge. I just want to be a consulting detective with a pay."

"Well, you sure don't beat around the bush, do you John?" Lestrade chuckled, "alright. John Watson. World's only consulting detective, with a pay. How much are we talking, here?"

As I rambled off about money and pay cheques, a small part of my brain registered that my hand wasn't in need of flexing, and my leg wasn't bothering me, but I limped out of habit. In fact, neither of those things had bothered me for several days now. I was back on the battlefield.


	5. Chapter 5: Romeo, Homicide, & Juliet

John's Blog

Chapter 5: Romeo, Homicide, & Juliet

_Beta'd by Vozana666, my best friend and inspiration. She's an amazing writer, and she's the one who gave me the case idea when my imagination failed._

That case I spoke of was a rather interesting one and I do believe it deserves an entire blog post to give it credit. As a first case, it intrigued and inspired me, and that's something special. It made me feel alive again, something I never believed I could feel.

(***)

"So what do you think?" Lestrade had asked of me as I stepped into the room.

I'd raised an eyebrow at him.

"Greg, I literally just put my foot on the floor in here. Even Sherlock wouldn't be able to assess that quickly."

"Right, yeah. Sorry, I'm just edgy. Corporate's really riding me on this one."

I'd nodded once and looked at my surroundings. It was an apartment room, fourth floor up, room 181.

Simple and quaint.

Apart from the dead man lying in the middle of the floor.

He was laying on a sheet, his eyes blank. There was a puncture wound in his arm, and he would've been considered a drug addict if it weren't for the fact that there was only the one needle hole. Possible overdose, but why would he have overdosed without ever having drugs prior to it? I'd stooped down beside the body, gloves on.

I reached for the man's wallet and found a driver's licence (Joshua Creighton), a family photo (the deceased and another man), a shopping list (bread, milk, eggs, blueberry muffin mix), and a love note from a man (presumably the man in the photo) named Marc Jackal. I'd inspected the body further, and my eyes had glanced over a suspicious-looking bulge under the sheet. I'd lifted the sheet slightly and cautiously grabbed at the lump. A piece of paper folded 7 times over lay in my hand and Lestrade read over my shoulder.

_**To my dearest Mark Jackal,  
I could not live knowing that we could never reveal our forbidden love to an unforgiving and judgemental world. You were everything to me, I will miss your touch and your love, but I will not miss the cruel stares as we walk hand-in-hand. I should not have to feel ashamed of who I love. We are all God's children, and God loves all. So why can't society? Do not feel sorry for me, do not mourn me. Move on. Get a wife. Have children. Become the man you could never have been with me. I dragged you down, and for that I am sorry. Please forgive me.  
Yours in death,  
Joshua Creighton. **_

"It's got to be a suicide, hasn't it? I mean, look at the man!" Lestrade exclaimed, "why can't I shake this feeling that it's a homicide..."

"Because it is."

"Sorry?"

"It's a homicide."

"How can you tell?"

I'd sighed at that point, frustrated.

"Isn't it obvious? Look at the note!"

"Yeah, a suicide note. What's so homicidal about that?"

"First of all, the note is addressed to a man named Mark, M-A-R-K, whereas the love letter in his wallet is from a man named Marc, M-A-R-C. The name is spelt differently, yet it is obviously the same man. So obviously, it was written in a hurry. What man committing suicide hurries his last note? Also, the writing is clearly different to that of the shopping list, so it is a forged suicide note. That, and with the bruised and bloody state of the deceased's knuckles, says clearly that it was a homicide and that Joshua Creighton put up a fight before he was murdered."

Lestrade had shaken his head in awe.

"So who's the killer, then?"

"I have a theory. I'll need to speak with Marc."

(***)

"Marc, can you think of anyone that disapproved of the relationship between Joshua and yourself?"

"N-no." Marc had said, his brown eyes betraying his lie.

"Liar." The woman beside him had scoffed, her hand resting reassuringly on Marc's thigh.

"And you are?" I'd asked her.

"Felicity Prior. Marc's best friend. We've known each other since kindergarten."

"Felicity, why are you accusing Marc of lying?"

"His brother hated Josh."

"Who is your brother, Marc?"

"C-Christopher Jackal."

"Yeah, not much of a brother, is he?" Felicity had obnoxiously cut in again, vying for attention.

"Why is that?" I'd asked, caving to her pleas for regard.

"When Marc came out to his family, Christopher got real angry. He thought it was just a phase, but when Marc found Josh, and they became a couple, Chris got really mad and kept trying to split them up. He hated Josh and thought that Marc was being mislead and hypnotised. It would've been funny if Chris hadn't gotten so violent about it. He kept cornering Josh and punching him and pretty much begging him to break up with Marc and stop leading him on and stuff. Biggest homophobe if I ever saw one!"

"Anyone else think the relationship was despicable?"

"Yeah, loads of people. But Chris was the most aggressive."

"I see. Thank you for your time."

"So it was the brother, then." Lestrade clarified after I told him what was said.

I handed him a cup of tea and sat down, shaking my head.

"It wasn't the brother."

"But you just said-"

"The brother was an angry person, and he disapproved of their relationship, but it wasn't him."

"John, if you're just pulling my leg-"

"It was Felicity Prior, Marc's best friend."

"The woman that told you everything?"

"The very same."

"But she's his best friend!"

"Exactly. Christopher Jackal was a violent homophobic man, and he was worried for his little brother. But he kept it hidden. He never attacked his brother, only Joshua. This says that he didn't want to harm his brother. He wanted to split them up, but he didn't want to mentally or physically harm him. So. No motive. But Felicity has a motive."

"Which is?"

"She's in love with Marc. They've been best friends since kindergarten and she hasn't developed feelings? Please. She's addicted to attention, and I'd say she's been in love with Marc for years, always trying to come on to him. So when he found love in someone else, she was furious. Could he not see that she was better suited? She has several puncture wounds on her arms; she's an addict. Obviously, while drugged up on heroin, she had snuck into Joshua's apartment, and started her attack. He didn't want to hit a girl, but with no other choice, he had to. There are no obvious marks on her apart from the tiny cut on her cheekbone, hidden well with make up, but I'm willing to bet that her stomach and hips tell another story."

(***)

And thus, the case was solved. Quite a tragic love story, really. Girl loves boy, boy falls in love with someone else, girl sets out for revenge. It's sort of a twisted modern version of Romeo & Juliet.

_"For never was a story of more woe,  
Than this of Juliet, and her Romeo."_


End file.
